


un-death and the aftermath

by octoaliencowboy



Series: Alfred Stories [2]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bittersweet, Gen, Gratuitous Headcanon, Humour, Vampire Alfred, Vampires, he gets like turned into a vampire, i didnt actually write the dying part though only the aftermath dw, i have never cared about canon and i never will, tagged as major character death ONLY BECAUSE, tagged for language, thats just how it is in show biz baby, the grim reaper is basically an oc, the grim reaper uses they them pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 13:22:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20258785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octoaliencowboy/pseuds/octoaliencowboy
Summary: Alfred Pennyworth is deep in mourning when he gets attacked by what turns out to be a vampire. What happens next probably will not shock you. At least the Grim Reaper is pretty cool company for recently-undead people.





	un-death and the aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> more blatant Alfred's backstory according to me propaganda.

In the days before, if you had asked Alfred Pennyworth what it probably felt like to be dead, the first adjective he would have thought of would be _ cold _ , and _ dark _ a close second. 

He knew better, now. 

_ Dying _was cold. Chilling to the bone. It was dark; blackness creeping in on the edges of your vision, unstoppable no matter how much you might struggle, and it was terrifying, terrifying like nothing he’d ever known before-- and that was really saying something. 

Being dead, however, was not cold, nor was it any darker than life had been. In fact, it didn’t feel like much at all. 

Alfred looked groggily around the dirty alleyway he’d woken up in, his head spinning, but not in the way it usually was after a night of drinking. The man who attacked him was nowhere in sight. He looked down, chin to his chest, and spotted the pool of blood he was lying in. 

_ Ah. Right _. 

So he was dead, then. 

He must have been, because there were aches in his knees that he couldn’t feel anymore, and the soul-deep exhaustion that had been chasing him for years and years was equally gone. 

What he didn’t understand was that he was still exactly where that strange man had left him. He hadn’t gotten his hopes up about ever going to heaven, but… 

Actually, if the dark alleyways of Gotham City were Hell, then damn if that didn’t make _ so much sense. _

Then he looked up again, and if he weren’t already gone from the land of the living, he surely would have died of a heart attack. 

“_ Bloody hell _—!” Alfred tried to scramble away from the dark, cloaked figure kneeling above him, but there was nothing behind him but the brick wall stained with his own blood, and there was nowhere for him to go. 

“**Relax** ,” said the figure. Alfred couldn’t see their face, obscured in shadow as it was, but their voice was haunting. Eerie like a thousand voices speaking as one, casual though their tone was. And with no small amount of exasperation. “ **We won’t be here long, so the least you could do is be pleasant company for at least a few minutes** . **I’m not gonna hurt you. Couldn’t even if I wanted to**.” 

Alfred eyed the scythe in the figure’s gray, withered hand dubiously, rather rightfully not believing them, but he started to calm down anyway. It was weird, in any case, to feel panic but no racing heartbeat. 

“Are… are you the Grim Reaper?” Alfred asked, voice wavering. 

The figure, the Grim Reaper, scoffed. “**Duh**,” they said. 

Sitting up so he was no longer slumped half propped up on the wall and half on the ground, because that was hardly dignified in the slightest, Alfred pulled his knees to his chest. “What do you mean, we won’t be here long? Aren’t I dead?” 

“**Yeah** ,” the Grim Reaper shifted with a grunt so they were sitting crossed legged in front of him. “ **But not for much longer. Gotta send you back soon**.” 

“Why?”

He couldn’t see, but Alfred had the distinct feeling that the Grim Reaper was rolling their eyes at him. “**What do you think happens when a gothic looking wacko bites you in the neck and drains your blood, dumbass**?” 

Alfred raised a shaking hand to his neck, where, yes, there were two telltale puncture wounds, not bleeding anymore, and not stinging anymore either. “Oh,” Alfred breathed, which was ironic because he wasn’t breathing anymore. “So I…” 

“**You’re turning into a vampire as we speak**.” 

“Oh.” He dropped his hand back into his lap. “I see. I didn’t know vampires were real.” 

The Grim Reaper huffed a laugh. “**This is Gotham, pal** . **You have no idea what kind of crazy shit is real here**.” 

There was silence for another few moments, an unsettling sort of silence, an empty and lifeless silence. No hints of Gotham’s downtown traffic in the background, no headlights passing by, no horns honking, no people yelling at each other, no footsteps hurrying down the sidewalk, eager to get home as soon as possible. There was nothing. 

“**Well**?” The Grim Reaper tilted their head expectantly at Alfred. 

“Well, what?” 

“**Don’t you have any questions for me** ? **People always have questions**.”

Alfred sighed, or more like made the motion one usually made while sighing, because again, he wasn’t breathing anymore. “I suppose… well, what I suppose what I want to know is… is Harold…?” 

“**Harold’s doing great, actually** . **He misses you, of course** . **And he doesn’t blame you for how he died** , ** either** . **Shame it’ll be a long time before you meet again** , ** now** , **because of the whole vampire thing, but you ** ** _will_ ** ** meet again** . **Trust me** , **I know**.”

A weight that had been there for months and apparently followed him into the afterlife lifted off of Alfred’s shoulders. It was good to hear, that his late love was doing well after death. It was good to hear that he didn’t fault Alfred, though Alfred did, and still would for some time. But it was good to hear, all the same. 

With that thought put to peace, Alfred asked, “How do you know?” 

“**I do get a schedule in advance** , ** you know** . **I know everything**.” 

“I see…” Alfred looked around the alley again, because there wasn’t much else to do except look at the Grim Reaper, and no offence to the Grim Reaper, but looking at them made Alfred very uncomfortable. 

The moon was high in the sky, barely visible in the gap between the two buildings, and the clouds and light pollution of Gotham City. But it was bright all the same, brighter than Alfred remembered it being. The clouds weren’t moving; wherever the hell Alfred was right now, there was no wind. He wondered if this was some kind of in-between, a place between life, death, and whatever awaited them. Alfred didn’t ask the Grim Reaper what the afterlife was like. He didn’t feel ready to process that kind of knowledge, and, well, it wasn’t like there was much point in knowing now, anyway. 

Slowly, slowly enough that he didn’t notice at first, the sensations of the world started to come back to him. 

It was the smells he noticed first, more intense than they had been before he died. 

He smelled smoke, and exhaust, and gasoline. Garbage, and rats. But more acutely than any of that he smelled people— their sweat, tears, and _ blood _.

He could hear everything again, except he could _ really _ hear everything. Everything he could hear before and new things, like the buzzing of electric lights and the murmurs of conversations happening far away. 

And he could feel again, too— the sticky, gross feeling of the blood around him, and where his clothes clung to his skin where they’d gotten wet from it. He could feel the pavement he was sitting on, and the bricks digging into his back. He ran his weathered hands over his slacks, and it was like he could distinguish every thread in the cheap fabric from the other. 

Alfred sucked in a deep breath— which surprised him, but after a second of testing it out, it turned out he didn’t _ need _ to breathe, but he took comfort in the action, so he did it anyway. And again, and again, until it felt natural again. 

Seemed like he was back in the land of the living, even if he wasn’t really, truly a part of it anymore.

He looked up again, and startled. 

“You’re still here.” He said it as if it wasn’t a question, though it was. The Grim Reaper, not having moved an inch, shrugged. 

“**Of course** . **I usually stick around with you undead types** — **a lot of y’all freak out almost right away** . **You seem fine** , **though** . **Props**.” They said, standing up. Alfred was quick to follow— in fact, a little quicker than he usually would have. He wasn’t sure if it was because he no longer felt the effects of old age even though all his other senses were newly heightened, or if it was because his newfound vampirism had made him faster. 

“I sort of thought you would disappear as everything else started to come back.” Alfred adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, and tugged down the hem of his waistcoat. He pulled his coat closed tighter around him. 

The Grim Reaper laughed. “**Listen** , **dude** ,” they said, putting a hand on Alfred’s shoulder. It was startlingly cold, and sent a violent shiver down Alfred’s spine. “ **Death is everywhere** . ** _I_ ** ** am everywhere** . **And if you’ve seen me once** , **you can see me any time** . **In the week you’ve been dead** , **I’ve already collected thousands of souls**.” 

Alfred stared at them, eyes bulging. “Week?” He sputtered. “It’s only been moments!” 

“**Yeah** , **I made it so you wouldn’t notice** , **since I wasn’t gonna lead you anywhere** . **Less stressful for you that way** . **But yeah** , **it’s been a week** . **Gotham nights are all the same anyway**…” 

The Grim Reaper removed their hand from Alfred’s shoulder and shrugged. “**Well** , **I’ll be off** , **then** . **We will see each other again** , **Alfred Pennyworth** , **though probably not in the way you think** . **Have fun being immortal**.” 

They waved, Alfred blinked, and then they were gone, as though they’d never been there in the first place. 

Still though, Alfred could feel their presence lingering, like the comfort of a weighted blanket. Strange that one might find the presence of death reassuring, but according to the Grim Reaper he had been dead for a week already, so he could not go back to his old life and pretend he wasn’t undead. Not that he had been enjoying his old life much as of late. In any case, if it weren’t for this, Alfred would only be feeling crushing loneliness. 

And, now that Alfred knew what it was, he realized death’s presence was rather familiar. He’d been well acquainted with the concept of death in life, after all. Death _ was _ everywhere. 

They were quite a strange person, Alfred thought. They spoke in a way Alfred had hardly heard before, and used words Alfred had _ certainly _ never heard before, but was almost nothing like he imagined the Grim Reaper might be like, even though they looked exactly like how he thought they would.

Alfred buried his hands in his pockets, and walked out onto the street, his thin legs carrying him in no particular direction as he contemplated his next move. He was functionally immortal now, after all. 

And wasn’t that a thought? Immortality. 

He’d been thinking, before, that he didn’t particularly want to live much longer. Ever since Harold… 

Nevermind. Now, though, he was going to live— sort of— forever. The thought was… a little disappointing. 

He’d been hoping he wouldn’t have to spend much more time without Harold. 

He kept walking. The streets were dark, but he found he could see fine. He passed an empty newspaper stand, still stocked with yesterday’s newspaper, and paused to look it over. 

The date at the top read clearly _ November 19, 1970 _– so the Grim Reaper had been telling the truth. Alfred really had been dead for a week. Not that they would have had any reason to lie. 

So what was he going to do now?

Maybe he could find the vampire that did this to him and tear him a new one, but he probably wouldn’t. He hoped he never ran into that man again. 

So, what _ was _ he going to do now? He couldn’t go back to the troupe, that was for certain. Someone had to have found his body in the past week, they would have identified him, and probably already had a funeral. They were efficient mourners, those lot were. The reason they hadn’t moved on from Gotham already in the months since Harold was killed was because Alfred insisted they stay, just a little bit longer. 

They might have already skipped town, without his broken heart keeping them tied down anymore. 

He was running out of time to dither. He’d been walking for hours, though he didn’t notice, lost in his thoughts as he was, until the sun started to come up. An itch was starting to make itself known under Alfred’s skin, becoming fiercer and harsher, harder to ignore the lighter the sky got. He had to find somewhere to stay, hidden from the sun’s rays. They burned much more now than they used to. 

Alfred popped up his coat collar and wished he hadn’t lost his hat in his attempt to escape that vampire. He wished the Grim Reaper had hung around a little longer. Or at least, he wished he’d asked them for a little more advice. 

Really, he was six and nearly a half decades old, and yet, with everything adding up, he had never felt so lost in all his life. 

Un-life, now, he supposed. 

It didn’t help that he was in an unfamiliar part of the city. Good Lord, Alfred hated Gotham. 

Soon enough he found a subway entrance and made his way underground, sighing as he was met with the cool, dark air of the system of tunnels. Despite the early hour, there were already people bustling to and fro, and soon the place would be packed.

Gripping his scratchy wool coat closed with pale hands, weaving in between the small crowds of people, Alfred made his way to an unoccupied bench. He sat down, hoping no one would notice the even darker stains on his dark clothes, and let his head drop forward, closing his eyes. 

It wasn’t like Alfred had to worry about being murdered, anymore. He could check that one off, now. So he slept like that, with nary an idea of what his future held. All he could hope for was that it wouldn’t bring loneliness.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, Alfred... you have NO IDEA what's in store


End file.
